Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  Dawn’s gray light was beginning to brighten when Charles Hallet finally rode over to join Big John. He looked cold, bundled up in a heavy, blue blanket coat with the hood pulled over his head and tied beneath his chin. He wore buffalo-hide mittens and leggings of the same material, although with the hair turned in rather than out. His breath was a thin cloud that tinted his dark beard with curling streamers of mist.

  Others began to gather slowly around them, a quiet and grim-faced lot. As the light strengthened it revealed a land sparkling with frost. Although gauzy patches of fog draped the sides of the hills, the sky overhead was clear. Camp smells—damp-wood smoke and bubbling stews, the pungent odor of ox dung and green deer hides drying in cottonwood frames—were sharpened by the chilly dawn air.

  Sitting his big roan, Big John drank it all in with a clarity honed by the prospect of a coming battle. He was careful to keep his gaze focused on the far side of the camp, and not glance in the direction of his own carts, where he knew Isabella would be fussing with the breakfast dishes while Alec and Gabriel and Celine hovered somberly nearby. Big John was afraid that if he looked, he wouldn’t be able to stop the tears that wanted to squeeze past his lids and course down his weathered cheeks.

  When the hunters who would ride with them were mounted and assembled, Big John heeled his roan toward the gap Breland had created by pushing one of the empty meat carts out of the way. Turcotte shuffled forward to see them off, his expression sullen. The words of Breland and some of the others from the night before still stung the goateed half-blood, yet Big John felt no sympathy for him. Turcotte said: “We will remain here two more days, Big John, then we must leave.”

  “Understood, though I doubt we’ll be gone that long. If ’tis a fight they’re truly wantin’, they won’t be hard to find. Look for us back any time after noon today.”

  Turcotte rolled his shoulders indifferently, then stepped aside. Big John urged the roan through the gap and the others filed through behind him. Breland nodded or spoke to each man as he passed, then rolled the cart back in place.

  * * * * *

  They skirted the shore of the lake until they came to a trail winding away from the basin. Here, Patterson took the lead, moving fast with the rest of them, strung out single file behind. As the sun came up, it burned away the scattered pockets of fog, but the air remained cool and the frost lingered on the northern slopes. They reached the spot where the Chippewas had accosted Patterson shortly after midmorning, the story plain to read in the tall, dry grass. After setting the lanky mixed-blood free, the Indians had ridden west. Pointing the roan’s nose along the Chippewas’ trail, Big John lifted him into a lope.

  Noon passed and the land began to change. The grass grew shorter as they left the tall grass prairies behind. The hills leveled off and the valleys became wider, shallower. The woods thinned out along the streams to become small, scattered groves, although patches of scrub willow continued to flourish on the sandbars.

  With the day’s waning, the sun began to shine straight into their eyes, nearly blinding them as it neared the horizon. Big John slowed to a walk, a feeling of uneasiness coming over him as the land ahead seemed to disappear in the searing light. He’d removed his coat at the noon break, and now he could feel the dampness of sweat growing beneath his arms, a clamminess coming to the palms of his hands. When the time came, he pulled the roan to a stop, and, even though he couldn’t have said why he did it, he wasn’t surprised when the Chippewas appeared suddenly from behind a swell in the land about one hundred yards ahead, like board figures jerked upright by strings.

  The Métis fanned out as they had done the week before, when meeting old Tall Cloud and his band. Casually butting his double-barreled rifle to his thigh, Big John squinted into the sun. In its brilliance he was unable to count the Indians before him, but he thought Patterson’s claim of thirteen would be close.

  No one spoke, and for a long time the only sounds were those of their horses, blowing impatiently or stamping a hoof against the hard ground. Although Big John sensed the tension in the men around him, he could manage only a weary dread within himself.

  “Well,” he said finally, “’tis come to this, has it?” He nudged the roan forward, and, even though he would have preferred to meet One Who Limps alone, he offered no protest when Pike jogged his bay alongside.

  From the Chippewa contingent a wiry, bare-chested man with long, raven-hued hair rode out to meet them, a second warrior at his side. They met halfway in between and stopped with the noses of their horses almost touching.

  In English, but accompanying his words with sign so that all might follow, Big John said: “Greetings, One Who Limps and Crow Horse. I am Big John McTavish of the Tongue River, and a friend to the Chippewas for many seasons, as well as an enemy to their enemy, the Sioux. I’ve been told, One Who Limps, that ye’re blamin’ me for the death of ye brother Wolf Slayer, what tried to kill my brother, Mister Pike, here. It’s been said that ye’ve blackened ye face against me, and have come seekin’ me scalp. Can such be true?”

  One Who Limps replied in Chippewa, as well as with his hands. “It is true that Big Man was once our friend,” he began, using the name Big John had been given many years before by the Chippewas, when he first came among them to trade. “But this can be true no longer, for Big Man has killed my true brother, who was the son of my father. For this, Big Man must pay in blood, or there shall be war between my people and the half-breeds who have adopted Big Man as their own, even though his blood is white, and therefore corrupted.”

  A taut smile played across Big John’s face at this insult to his place in the valley, but he didn’t interrupt, and One Who Limps did not pause.

  “My people would not like to rub out the half-breeds because even though their strength has been diluted by their white trader fathers, they are still of the Ojibway nation. As the coyote is a weaker brother to the wolf, so are the half-breeds lesser brothers to the Ojibway. All would agree it would be a sad thing for a stronger brother to kill his weaker sibling. This, One Who Limps would not like to see.”

  “Aye to that, ye cross-eyed son-of-a-bitch,” Big John replied pleasantly, though careful to leave the latter part of his statement out of his sign. He could tell from the narrowing of One Who Limps’s eyes, however, that the young warrior understood, just as he could tell that Crow Horse did not, and that he had only read the partial reply of Big John’s hands.

  “’Tis not right for brothers to fight one another, and I’d not want to see it happen here,” Big John continued with barely a pause. “’Tis a thing between me and yeself, One Who Limps, this matter over ye brother’s death, and I came to fight ye that way, man to man, if ye have the courage for it. But if ye’re naught but an old woman in ye heart, toothless and smellin’ of shit, then maybe there would be someone else I could fight. Ye sister, perhaps?”

  This time, he said it all with his hands, and there was a quick stirring among the Chippewas, a matching restlessness within the Métis behind him. Big John heard the dull ratcheting of several weapons being cocked in both parties, and felt an icy chill worm down his spine. The moment hung in a delicate balance, and Pike didn’t help matters any when he growled: “God dammit, McTavish, this is my fight, not yours.”

  “Ah, Mister Pike, but it is my fight, for ’twas me what killed young Wolf Slayer.”

  “No,” Pike said stubbornly, glaring at One Who Limps. “This is between me and him.”

  Big John turned to him, eyes smoldering. “Listen to me, sir, and listen well. ’Tis neither me nor yeself I was thinkin’ of when I challenged One Who Limps, but them that we left behind this mornin’, the womenfolk and the wee ones. They’re the ones that count most, and I’ll bring ’em no grief if I can help it. Nor will I start a war I can prevent, even if it costs me me own life to stop it, though I’m not so old that I don’t remember a trick or two.” He paused, then added in a gentler tone: “I’m hopin’ to end this thing here, if I can, and I’ll ask ye to respect tha
t. I will, now.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Pike said, then shook his head in defeat. “All right, but, if you lose, I’m gonna wade into that red bastard’s hide like it was the finest kind of whiskey.”

  “No, Mister Pike, ye won’t. If One Who Limps wins, then ye’ll be fetchin’ me carcass back for buryin’, and seein’ to the women… Isabella and the lass. Ye’ll be runnin’ the shaggies for me the same as if I lived and breathed, and cartin’ the pemmican and robes that Isabella makes back to Pembina Post for Murphy. That’s ye debt to me for the bay ye’re ridin’ and what supplies ye’ll take with ye to the mountains afterward. I want no killin’ beyond what’s to happen here in the next few minutes.”

  “Jesus, McTavish.”

  “I’m askin’ ye as my friend, Mister Pike.”

  Haughtily One Who Limps said in English: “McTavish is an old man. There is no honor in killing someone too old to defend himself.”

  “Then why’d ye track me down, ye bloody damn’ fool!” Big John roared, spooking One Who Limps’s horse so badly it almost threw him. Some of the Métis laughed, but Big John kept his eyes on One Who Limps, his expression grim. “Ye’ll no be backin’ out of this so easy, lad,” he said darkly. “Ye followed for blood, and ’tis blood ye’ll have. Mine, or ye own.”

  He threw a leg over the roan’s neck and slid nimbly to the ground, then handed his rifle, shooting bag, and powder horn to Pike. He let the roan’s reins fall, knowing the horse was too well trained to wander far. The Métis edged forward, as did the Chippewas. Within seconds Big John and One Who Limps were ringed by horsemen. One Who Limps’s gaze darted swiftly around the circle. Then he, too, slid from his pony’s back and handed his fusil, bag, and horn to Crow Horse.

  “Big Man is a fool to fight a warrior as strong as One Who Limps,” One Who Limps boasted in Chippewa. “But Big Man was also a strong warrior himself at one time. One Who Limps will honor Big Man’s scalp, and place it above all others on his lance.”

  Big John drew the slim, ivory-handled dirk from its sheath above his right hip. One Who Limps pulled a heavy-bladed Hudson’s Bay dagger. They approached slowly and began to circle. A deathly silence gripped those watching. Not even the ponies made a sound.

  One Who Limps made the first thrust. Big John parried it easily. They made another complete circle, then One Who Limps tried again, lunging forward to bring his dagger up in an arcing blur that sliced the air where Big John had stood only an instant before. One Who Limps recovered and spun defensively. It took him a moment to become aware of the gash in his right arm. One Who Limps stared dumbly at the wound, then lifted his eyes to regard Big John’s bloodied dirk in disbelief.

  They circled again. One Who Limps feigned, but Big John just smiled. One Who Limps tried another thrust. Steel clicked loudly as their blades met, and Big John skipped to the side, slicing the flesh over One Who Limps’s ribs.

  One Who Limps appeared puzzled as he began another cautious revolution. Unconsciously he started to move back, but was stopped by a murmur of disapproval from the Chippewas. Then the confusion vanished from his face. One Who Limps was an honored warrior, and to be cut twice without having wounded in return was a blow to his pride. Big John knew One Who Limps would rather die than suffer the humiliation of not drawing blood from his opponent.

  One Who Limps came forward in a rush, yelling loudly for the first time. Big John started to the right, then went left, but this time it was One Who Limps who proved quicker. At the last moment he countered his headlong rush, dodged Big John’s awkward, backhanded slash, and drove the tip of his dagger into the soft flesh beneath the Scotsman’s ribs.

  Big John grunted sharply and skipped back. Grinning, One Who Limps settled into a defensive crouch. In a similarly protective stance, Big John switched the direction of their circling, making little curls in the air with the tip of his dirk. He ignored the pain in his side, the warm, liquid flow that crept toward his hip. The point of One Who Limps’s dagger shone red as he thrust it tauntingly in front of Big John.

  Big John advanced slowly, waving the bloodied dirk in its own sinuous reel. He feigned and One Who Limps countered. Big John feigned again; once more, the Chippewa jumped clear, taking no chances. They continued their deliberate orbit, probing warily with their knives as their blood dripped into the torn, dusty grass beneath their moccasins. It was One Who Limps who made the next offensive move, a quick, forward dash that Big John side-stepped. One Who Limps spun, slashing upward with his dagger. Big John’s dirk flashed. They backed away, both knives dripping fresh blood.

  A cut on Big John’s shoulder welled blood through the ripped fabric of his shirt, burning like fire. But it was One Who Limps who suddenly pressed his arm across his stomach and staggered backward. He stared down at the gaping wound without immediate comprehension, then, with a dawning horror, his knees buckled and the dagger dropped from his fingers. He wrapped both arms over his stomach against the push of intestines. Limbs quivering, he flopped to the ground, sitting bent forward with his legs splayed before him.

  There was an angry murmuring from several of the Chippewas; the Métis muttered a warning in return. Crow Horse slid from his pony’s back and laid his weapons on the ground before going to One Who Limps’s side.

  Big John backed away slowly, his grip tight on the dirk. His chest was heaving and sweat sheened his face, dripping from the tip of his nose. Blood from the wound in his shoulder soaked his sleeve, but he made no effort to staunch it, nor did he acknowledge the puncture to his side. He watched stonily as Crow Horse eased One Who Limps onto his back, then gently pulled his arms away from his stomach. Crow Horse studied the wound intently for several minutes, poking tenderly at the raw, bleeding flesh, the purplish bulge of intestine. When he looked at Big John, his face was impassive, his voice without emotion.

  “His intestines are not injured,” Crow Horse announced in Chippewa. “I think he will live, unless you wish to kill him now.”

  Big John made the sign for no, and turned away. He saw Pike sitting his bay close by, holding the reins to his roan. Making his way to the stallion, he took the reins, then mounted awkwardly but without help. A couple of Chippewas came forward to help Crow Horse bind One Who Limps’s wounds. Big John detected no animosity in their actions.

  To Pike, who hadn’t understood Crow Horse’s words, Big John said: “The man’s guts are not cut, and, with luck, he’ll live, though I fear he’ll be crippled. I’m not so sure I shouldn’t end it here, as Crow Horse offered.”

  “Is that what he was saying?” Pike asked.

  “Aye, finish the deed proper-like, and take the scalp if I so desired. ’Twould be within me rights.”

  “If you don’t, he’s liable to come looking for you again someday. That belly of his is gonna sag like an old woman’s dugs for the rest of his life. That ain’t a thing he’ll soon forget.”

  “True enough, but a man wearies of killin’, Mister Pike, and I’ve done my share of it over the years. I’ve no urge to do it again today. Let him live in peace, if he will, and meself as well.”

  Crow Horse stood as the others wrapped cloth around the long, horizontal cut in One Who Limps’s stomach. Speaking to all, he said: “It is done, this thing between Big Man and One Who Limps. We will take One Who Limps home to his wife, and fight no more. On this, I have given my word.”

  Big John’s relief was obvious to all. “Crow Horse speaks wisely,” he said loudly. “One Who Limps was a worthy foe and a brave man. There’s no dishonor to anyone this day.” Taking his rifle from Pike, he calmly reined away. When they had moved out of earshot of the Chippewas, he added: “’Twas a vale not far back. I’d like to get there, at least, before I fall off my horse.”

  “We can do that,” Pike said.

  “Well, we’ll give it a try, anyway,” Big John agreed weakly.

  * * * * *

  Lying on her back, Celine stared at the interlacing branches overhead. They reminded her of black cobwebs strung against the star-lit sky
. The sound of an occasional falling leaf spinning into the shadows around her and the murmur of the wind in the limbs seemed to deaden the rustle of dried grass as she rocked rhythmically.

  Peter, her beloved Peter, used to rock her this way. In fresh wheat straw ripe with the odor of harvest, the chattering of the other girls as they went about their chores a sweet symphony in the background, they had made long, sweaty love in narrow, freshly cleaned stalls. Afterward they would lie side-by-side. With his mop of blond hair falling into his eyes, Peter would chew on a stem of straw while gazing at her, sometimes leaning forward to play its tip lightly across her breasts. He had deep blue eyes and a reckless laugh and arms that nearly crushed the breath from her.

  It was his laughter that had ultimately betrayed them. Still, Celine had always thrilled to hear it, to know that it was her and her body that brought it forth.

  In her heart of hearts she knew that sex was dirty, love a filthy lie, and that being a woman was the worst sin of all. Between her legs resided Satan’s chalice, a siren’s call heard only by the weaker of the male breed, those most undesirable. Hogs and sheep rutted, and succumbing to temptations of the flesh with Peter had reduced her to that level, the station of animals—a mindless, godless shell of blood and bone, her soul warped and blackened as if scorched by fire.

  It was Sister Bernice who had made her recognize that truth, who had so vividly spelled out the wages of her sins, then saw to her punishment, for it was she who had found Celine and Peter in near nakedness in the barn. She who had hauled Celine back to the convent without giving her time to button up or straighten out, parading her for all to see. It was Sister Bernice, as well, who had locked her in the damp, windowless room at the rear of the convent with only a bucket for her waste and a single woolen blanket, a cell in the truest sense of the word, with a solid oak door Sister Bernice had slammed shut on her in September and not opened again until March, when she was sure the younger woman wasn’t with child.